


fineshrine

by voguesloth



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, fluff with a tiny bit of angst, i never know how to tag i'm so sorry, not much though, pretty charles-centric I think?, set after Days of Future Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7835206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voguesloth/pseuds/voguesloth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a way, she’s his own personal salvation, condensed into a body, blessed with a warrior of a soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fineshrine

**Author's Note:**

> very loosely inspired by purity ring's song by the same name
> 
> also posted on tumblr [here]()

**shrine** /ʃɹaɪ̯n/ (noun)

– a holy or sacred place dedicated to a specific deity, ancestor, hero, martyr, saint, or similar figure of awe and respect, at which said figure is venerated or worshipped.

***

He opens his eyes slowly, only to see her, sitting on the windowsill, back braced against the frame, probably surveying the now snow-covered gardens surrounding the mansion; and she’s there but _not quite_ , her mind most likely completely absent, focused instead on entirely different matters than the sun rising in the distance. The light seems to create a delicate glow, like some kind of a halo, around her form, its rays dancing between the locks of her mussed up hair in soft, little licks, shining through her linen nightgown, certainly too thin for winter nights, giving the observer just the tiniest hint of what hides underneath.

He’s instantly reminded of a beautiful forest nymph he’s seen in a painting a few years ago, back when he was still at university, but in his half-sleeping state, still a tad hazy and not entirely conscious, he can’t remember its title, nor its author. Something tells him it was one of the Pre-Raphaelites; Waterhouse, perhaps? Or was it Burne-Jones? Either way, it doesn’t really matter, because he has an even finer, more graceful version of the dryad, right before his eyes. She looks so gentle like this, and so youthful, almost as if she hadn’t aged a day from the moment they met; and when she suddenly turns her head towards him, he wonders for a second if she’s somehow sensed that he’s awake.

‘Good morning’, she murmurs, the corners of her lips curling upward to form a small smile, so obviously stifling a yawn.

‘Mm, morning, love’, his voice is still heavy and rasp-like; and he's almost sure he must've closed his eyes for a minute or two, because when he opens them, she's already pouncing back onto the bed, taking a few small and swift, dancer-like leaps.

The mattress dips a little when she places herself right next to him, sitting cross-legged, and bends down to his face. For a heartbeat, he thinks she’s going to kiss him on the mouth, like she does almost every morning, before both of them need to get ready for their respective class, but she shifts her face at the last moment, just enough to give him a quick peck right on the tip of his nose.

She loves the breathy laugh he lets out when she does it, and she giggles a little too when he puts his arms around her, not letting her get back to her previous position, and she realises this is probably the happiest—and definitely, the most relaxed—she’s seen him since what happened all that time ago. And even though she knows he’s probably never going back to being his old, carefree and untroubled self, at least not fully, she’s glad that he’s not pushing everybody away anymore. Surely, he’s still massively insecure about not being able to use his legs anymore, and no matter how much he insists that _yes, darling, everything is completely fine, there’s no need to worry about me_ , she doesn’t need to be a telepath to know that he’s still struggling to accept the wheelchair as anything else than a necessary evil, creating some kind of barrier between him and the world.

They both know he believes in himself much more now than he did at the beginning; he was so ready to give up then, so ready to relapse, to go back to despising himself and his disability, and to taking that godforsaken serum Hank shouldn’t have come up with in the first place.

He looks up at her face again, studying it intently with the purest, most unadulterated admiration. There’s so much more to her than just her looks, however gorgeous she might be. In fact, they weren’t what made him fall for her in the first place—not mainly, at least. From the very start, he was surprised how this seemingly inconspicuous, soft-spoken girl could be as fierce, and as dedicated, as she’s proven herself to be; how that limber, elegant creature was able to carry his worries and burdens alongside her own—no less, if not more, important and valid—on her shoulders, unyielding, like Atlas holding up the heavens. In a way, she’s his own personal salvation, condensed into a body, blessed with a warrior of a soul.

And he’s eternally thankful to her, for not letting him spiral further into that pit of despair, for being the anchor he’d needed so much, for guiding him back to sanity. He owes her a debt he doubts he could ever _possibly_ repay, because when everyone else had left—either by some obligation or by choice—she’d stayed, and had the strength to fight for him—for the both of them—when he wasn’t able to face his problems himself.

He could easily laud her for hours on end, putting her on a pedestal like some celestial being he’s sometimes absolutely certain she is, almost forgetting that she is, _de facto_ , very human—or at least, as human as a mutant can ever be. What he seems to be forgetting, too, is to listen to the words she’s saying to him at this very moment.

‘...and I thought we could—‘, focusing, he hears her stop abruptly, brows furrowed, and feels her fingers tapping on his arm lightly, very likely to get his attention. God, how long has he been like this? ‘Have I got something on my face? Or is there another reason you’re staring at me with this huge, dumb smile?’ she asks in a mock-reprimanding tone, obviously repressing a little laugh or giggle.

His reply is simple, the grin on his face transcending into his voice.

‘I just think you’re beautiful’.

**Author's Note:**

> any feedback/con-crit would be much appreciated, and seeing as English isn’t my first language, please let me know if you find any mistakes I haven’t been able to spot!


End file.
